In Quemadese, Miss Lee said, “Matella and Tziamara, this is Miss Petie. You’ve met her before. She is my friend.”
The two women, both of similar height, with brown hair and blue eyes, bowed and in heavily accented English murmured, “We are honored, Miss Petie.”
“Thank you,” Petie replied in Quemadese.
They smiled in surprise, then melted back toward the cabin.
“I rescued Matella and Tziamara from the brothels that held them imprisoned. I care for them. They care for me. I protect them. They protect me. I asked that they make international appetizers to please us. Today, we honor Chinese cuisine.” Using her chopsticks, Miss Lee selected a dumpling, dipped it in a dark brown sauce and conveyed it to her mouth. “Avail yourself.”
“Chef doesn’t like people messing around in his kitchen.”
“Chef will do as he’s told.” Miss Lee had no doubt.
Petie had no doubt, either. She was hungry and enjoyed a scallion pancake, a dumpling stuffed with savory pork and cabbage and one of shrimp and mushrooms, and sweet and sour duck. With prudent care, she sampled the sauces and found one so spicy it scalded the roof of her mouth, one so tasty she could have picked up the bowl and drunk it all, and soy sauce.
As she ate, she sipped the patxaran and felt herself mellow. She looked up to see Miss Lee smiling as she refilled Petie’s glass. As if Miss Lee had spoken, Petie answered her. “I haven’t eaten food like this since I was a child and visited China with my father.” That seemed naked and revealing, and she added, “You wouldn’t offer food and drink to someone you intended to kill later.”
“No. There’s blood on my hands, but yours will not stain me.”
Petie understood what Miss Lee was saying about the blood on her hands. When Petie wasn’t busy with the guests, she had been watching the news for signs of Miss Lee’s meeting with her son. She’d seen nothing of that, but within twenty-four hours of Miss Lee’s discovery of the nursemaid’s treachery, the woman had died a horrible death. For six more days, Petie caught no hint of Miss Lee or her passage, then yesterday, she’d read the reverent obituary—Miss Lee’s father died on his small, private Quemada island. Miss Lee had made the necessary statement of respect—and now she was here.
Petie took a sip of her drink, placed her chopsticks beside her plate and plunged into the conversation. “Your son didn’t know you?”
Miss Lee blinked but nodded. “I explained to his...his parents who I was, and they agreed that...that Hugh and I should meet alone.”
Petie suspected it was not so simple, but she could hardly accuse Miss Lee of intimidating the elderly couple.
“When we met, they hadn’t told my son who I was. He seemed not to recognize me. Even when I introduced myself, he seemed uninterested in speaking with me. Brusque. But I persisted over several days and several meetings, and at last he admitted he did remember me.”
“Ah.” Heartbreak was looming.
“He believed I had sold him for some minor infraction. He said when the nursemaid took him, she told him so. What other explanation could there be? Through his child’s eyes, I was completely powerful, a goddess dedicated to his protection. If he was gone from me, it must be because I wished it.” Miss Lee’s voice broke.
“I’m sorry. That’s...awful.” An understatement.
“Yes. I solemnly assured him I had mourned his loss every day, that I had been tricked by a powerful man into thinking him dead, and now I wished nothing so much as to once again be a parent to him.” Miss Lee drank her patxaran.
Petie filled her glass to the brim.
“He is not an adult, but he has grown up. He listened to my words. He looked back at that time. He gazed on my face. He believed me.” Miss Lee drank. “He spoke gently, as if I were a person to be pitied. He said his life was with his parents who had loved him and raised him and his friends. I offered to help with his further education, and he agreed to that and thanked me. He also agreed to visit me annually in Quemada, and he admitted he would enjoy skiing again. We will go to Switzerland together.” Miss Lee put her hand over her face, but when she lifted it away, her eyes were dry. “The loss of my son is punishment for allowing my father to think he could manipulate me. I should have known better than to trust him. I knew that he was better than anyone.” She looked at Petie. “I sent an assassin to the nursemaid. But I killed my father myself.”
Petie nodded. “He took your son. He made you a shell of yourself. Miss Lee, I do indeed understand.”
“I thought you would. You will call me Jeen now.” It was a startling pronouncement from a woman of Jeen Lee’s stature. “If we are not friends, we are at least not strangers. We know each other’s secrets.”
Petie wanted to back away. “We do?”
“You know mine. Perhaps I do not know yours in its entirety, but I have guessed a few things...Miss Evelyn Jones.”
8
PETIE HEARD JEEN LEE’S cool voice utter her real name, Evelyn Jones, and it felt like sticking her finger into a light socket. She jumped so hard, she bit her tongue. She pressed her back against the cushion and tried to get her breath. “How did you know?”
“It wasn’t easy, and I wasn’t sure.” Jeen leaned forward, her eyes glowing like black coals. “Not until this minute.”
With shaking fingers, Petie raised her glass to her mouth and tried to drink. She couldn’t. Not without splashing patxaran down her shirt. She put it back on the table. “For years, I was governed by the fear that someone would spot me. That they’d come for me. With time, I had relaxed. Now you—”
“Your facial structure has so changed, not even recognition software could make a positive identification.” Jeen gestured for silence and leaned back again.
Matella and Tziamara returned with a second course of appetizers. As they opened the stacked bamboo baskets, the dumplings, the spareribs, the octopus smelled delicious, but Petie’s stomach rebelled, and she said softly, “I don’t think I can eat right now.”
“We have all the time in the world,” Jeen replied.
To Petie’s surprise, Tziamara put her palm on Petie’s head and said something in a dialect Petie didn’t recognize.
Jeen smiled and agreed.
Matella spoke angrily, picked up Petie’s hands one after another, then put her hand under Petie’s chin and tilted her face up. She scowled at Petie’s forehead, then turned to Jeen with what was obviously a question.
Jeen agreed again, then to Petie she said, “To keep my image as I wish, my young attendants have learned the skills of hair styling and grooming. They have, I fear, grown bored with me. Tziamara wishes to cut your hair. Matella asks to...improve your complexion and soften your hands. Will you let them practice on you?”